


Augustin

by orphan_account



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Evil Twins, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tintin's past catches up with him in the form of the twin brother he never knew he had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Augustin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt over at the [Tintin Kink Meme](http://tintin-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1701.html%22) on Dreamwidth.

Their first meeting would always have been destined to be momentous, but the circumstances were, in this instance, unfortunate.

Tintin was hanging upside-down from a disintegrating rope-bridge, Snowy wriggling madly under one arm; he had one eye on the thundering fall of water below (hundreds of feet down; he supposed it would at least take a while before one hit the water, and then one would die at once, but he hadn't planned on dying today) and the other on Haddock, who was braced against the strain of the fraying rope. There was a knife clutched uselessly in his teeth, and he swung his head up against the bitter cold-metal weight of it to check again if anyone had followed.

“Tintin,” the Captain bellowed, and he sounded afraid. That, Tintin thought, was good; the Captain always sounded less afraid the more dangerous the situation, being prone to complain overlong about the trivial discomforts of adventure (such as being shot at, admittedly, but the soldiers had been shockingly poor shots). It was odd how the panicked note in his friend's voice steadied his own nerves.

“I'm coming,” he shouted back, “just hold on, Captain, I'll -”

Suddenly it wasn't a dog he was clutching under his arm, it was a maddened ball of angry barking fury. Tintin gave an undignified squawk and tightened his hold; Snowy carried on snarling furiously at the far bank until Tintin, dreading the worst (soldiers with guns, even poorly-aimed ones, would be inconvenient at a time like this), looked back again.

The banks were echoing Snowy's barks, and at first he didn't understand; but then, then he saw the small white shape dashing to and fro along the cliff, barking until the chasm was filled with a cacophony of sound. Even then, it didn't make a great deal of sense, not until he glanced towards the trees; and then he froze while the world wheeled about him.

He was looking at himself.

Not a mirror image, nothing so false. The figure on the bank had Tintin's hair, his face, the same determined expression he found whenever he glanced into a mirror; he was dressed in a suit, and wore a hat, but the way he stumbled back in shock – Tintin felt a tug, almost as if he himself had completed the movement, some kind of connection -

“Tintin,” the Captain called, voice completely steady. “Lad, take hold of the rope. It's fraying, and I won't be able to hold you. You're slipping. Tintin! Blue blistering barnacles, do as you're told!”

It didn't make sense. Tintin's mind ran lightning-fast through the possibilities as he took a firmer grip on the rope, and reached the only possible conclusion; he and this person were related. Perhaps closely, he thought, and then he thought _why would my twin be living in Switzerland?_. The face of the boy on the cliff, from what he could see from this distance, was as shocked as his own. He had been holding a gun, but it had fallen to the ground. _A gun? And why this stronghold? Is he with the company? Is he_ -

The rope snapped. The breath left Tintin's body all at once as he plummeted downward – but towards Haddock and the other side of the river and away from the stranger wearing his face; he was brought to an abrupt halt by the cliff face, curling himself around Snowy to protect the dog from the impact and feeling the agonising punching sensation as his wrist fractured against the rock. “Tintin!” came the shout of alarm from above as he hung there, winded.

“I'm all right,” Tintin called back, coughing; looking back, he saw that the stranger had gone. Snowy, whining, scrabbled around in his hold and managed to drape himself scarf-like across Tintin's shoulders. “But you'll have to pull me up, Captain, I can't use my left hand.”

*

A few hours later and they sat in front of a smoking fireplace, back at the inn where this adventure had started. Haddock was drinking heavily, and Tintin felt too drained even to try to stop him; his own face was in front of him whenever he blinked, and his wrist ached abominably. “Captain,” he said, eventually. “Did you see -”

“Thundering typhoons, of course I did,” was the succinct reply. “Still trying to get my head around it, lad.”

“I didn't know,” Tintin said numbly, feeling that it needed to be said, and looked up to see Haddock shaking his head. 

“No, I know you didn't.”

“He was going to shoot us,” Tintin added. “What if he – he looks like me, Captain, he has my face, and he was going to shoot us – what?” for Haddock was shaking his head.

“He looks nothing like you. Nothing, do you hear me?” Haddock gestured expansively with the whiskey glass in his hand, narrowly avoiding an accident as Tintin ducked by reflex. “You, you're, you can see your soul and it's a good soul. I'd know you anywhere, lad, y'hear? No matter how many long-lost twin brothers you turn out to have.” A hiccup. “You're one of a kind, Tintin.”

Tintin twisted his fingers together, warmth stealing through him, but it was not quite enough to banish the thrill of foreboding whenever he thought of that blurred figure at the edge of the cliff; something had changed in that moment of recognition between them, he knew, and curled the fingers of his good hand tighter into Snowy's thick warm coat.

*

Two years later, and that inauspicious and accidental first meeting seemed a lifetime away. Two years of strange newspaper reports of his own actions, never explained; two years of people looking strangely at Tintin, of people claiming they had met him before, of seeing his own face next to articles he'd never written (and would never have written) and in photos of places he'd never visited, and it had ended in this.

The cellars were cold, thick stone walls and slated floors not built for comfort. Tintin's hands were bound above his head; he'd lost most of the feeling in them, at once a relief and a nuisance, and his ankles had been chained together. There was no light, because the blindfold was made of thick black cloth, the kind they were saying could be used for blackout curtains.

“I'm not telling you a single thing,” Tintin said viciously. 

A line of fire flicked across his cheek. “I think you're going to,” said his own voice amicably. There was not even the hint of an accent there, nothing to tell them apart. “Imposters have no business keeping secrets.”

“I am not an imposter,” Tintin said through gritted teeth; the whip had hurt. “Where are my friends?”

“I think you'll find they're _my_ friends,” the voice said gently, and Tintin's stomach churned. "I seem to be good at making them, don't you think?" 

“Why are you doing this?” Tintin refused to let his fear bleed through into his voice, but it was a near-run thing. “Why -”

“Would it be crueler to tell you, or to let you guess?” mused the voice. “Or would it be -”

“As I am completely at sea, you will have to enlighten me,” Tintin snapped. His head ached; the blow that had knocked him out at the gates to Marlinspike Hall had been a hard one. He had no idea how he'd got to the cellar. “Why have you done it?”

“Because I can,” hissed the voice, suddenly closer. “Because you took everything away with you, didn't you? Precious little Augustin, oh, so sad we lost him. Such a pity poor Christof will never amount to anything.” A sudden hand in his hair jerked his head back against the rough stone. “I hated you from the moment you left. Isn't that good enough?”

“I didn't know I left,” Tintin said helplessly. Abandoned as a baby, the orphanage had always told him, left with nothing but a baby-name and a blanket. “I didn't know anything -”

“They're better off with me,” the voice said, talking over him. “Just like Mother and Father were, though they didn't know it. Why did you have to have ever existed?” There was a hoarse, ragged indrawn breath. "This is how it's meant to be, Augustin. This is the only way it can ever be."

“They'll never fall for it,” Tintin said, anger growing inside him, the more potent because it was mixed with a horrified fascinated kind of pity that he barely understood. _My brother_. “Never. When the Captain gets back -”

“What, you don't think we look enough alike?” A short, bitter laugh. “He might be concerned at some changes in – habit, shall we say; perhaps a little worried, but that will ease. After all, we're not that old, are we, brother? People do change, they say. You're only useful to me until he returns, at any rate; having your personal diaries would be an advantage, but I have faith in my own acting ability.”

Tintin ignored this. “W-where's Snowy?” He hated himself for the way he stumbled over the word; Snowy, lost and alone somewhere -

“Gone,” said the voice, his voice, his brother's voice. “Dead and gone, for all I care. You may have noticed that I acquired a dog of my own; animals are never worth the effort of persuasion. Come, now, you can't afford to be sentimental in the business of revenge, Augustin; that's not how it works, I'm afraid.”

Fear clawed at Tintin's throat. Snowy was clever; he could survive, he could fend for himself in the wild if need be, but not indefinitely, not without Tintin. “When the Captain gets back,” he repeated, clinging stubbornly to that one hope, because the Captain had promised it with fire in his eyes, the whiskey be damned, “he'll know. You might be able to fool Nestor and the Professor, and even the detectives, but he'll know, do you hear?”

There was laughter, and then footsteps walking away, and Tintin felt the fear and the anger and desolate loneliness (rarely was he so alone; the absence of Snowy and the Captain was like losing two of his senses) grow in him until he could barely stand it. “Sleep well, brother,” said Christof, and the heavy door of the cellar closed with a crash.

 

***

 

It was unusual to find Captain Archibald Haddock without a drink in his hand, on days when he was not in Tintin's company.

He sat at the desk, frowning at the telegram. It had been sent in reply to one of his own, and read simply _ALL IS WELL AT MARLINSPIKE STOP_. A perfectly logical response, given his own enquiry ( _TINTIN LEAVE MY CELLAR ALONE STOP I WILL KNOW IF IT IS GONE STOP HOPE ALL IS WELL HADDOCK_ ), but curiously lacking his young companion's normal gentle humour.

Perhaps Tintin was ill. The Captain shook his head, frowning; Tintin was stubborn as a mule, always had been, and would likely never give in to suggestions that he might be less than well. “Ah, lad,” he murmured, sagging back in the armchair, eyes still fixed upon the telegram, “you'll be the death of me.”

The hotel room seemed oddly empty without Tintin there. They did not often share sleeping quarters (Haddock, knowing full well the appearance it could too easily present to outsiders, was glad that they were rarely forced to it), but ordinarily Tintin was forever in and out of his rooms, discussing their latest investigation or (on those occasions when they were at home) with eager suggestions for new ones; to be away without him seemed wrong, empty in ways Haddock would rather not analyse too closely.

The business that had taken him to Bruges had dragged on tediously, but should be over soon, at any rate, a day or two longer at most. Haddock absently smoothed out the telegram, and sighed. Yes; perhaps he would do well to be away from Tintin for a while; the lad could very well take care of Marlinspike – blistering barnacles, he already did take care of it just as much as Haddock did himself – and perhaps the telegram had been meant as a hint of some kind. Haddock had never considered himself a man given to over-analysis of his relationships, and was finding it particularly bewildering.

Confound it all, he even missed that little drunkard of a dog.

*

Tintin woke on the second day to find that he couldn't feel his hands. 

Panicked, he tried to move them and bit back a cry of agony as his shoulders screamed protest; he had been tied up many times before, but never for so long and never at such an angle. “Hello, brother,” said his twin's voice pleasantly, sending shivers down his spine. “Have you been sleeping well?”

A dog yapped, and Tintin's heart leapt despite the pain. “Snowy!” he shouted through cracked lips; there were paws rushing towards them from somewhere, and he'd known all along that Snowy was fine, of course he was, now if only he could help Tintin to get out of this mess -

But the patter-scrape of dog paws on the stone floor never reached him. “I call my dog Snowy, too,” Christof said. “Such a big detail, it'd be a shame to get it wrong, wouldn't it? Of course, it's possible that your mutt has decided he would like a new master; one who is not quite so – unappealing.”

Snowy would never not know. Tintin knew that, but he could not help another shudder; he was not as strong as he had been yesterday, and his mouth was desperately dry. He licked his lips, and tasted blood sharp on his tongue. “How long will you keep me here?” he asked.

“A little longer,” said his twin. Fingers grasped his chin, turned his head to one side. “Hmm. Isn't it interesting to see oneself in profile?”

“I'd hardly know,” Tintin rasped back, “with this bandage over my eyes.”

“Oh, poor Augustin. And here, I brought you some water.” A metal rim pressed against his mouth suddenly, bruising his already sore lips; suddenly he was inhaling water, and spluttered before gulping down as much as possible. The liquid felt wonderfully cool and fresh. “I hear,” Christof continued, removing the cup as soon as possible, “that the Captain will be delayed by a few days. Such a shame.”

Tintin struggled into a more upright position against the wall; it allowed his arms to bend slightly at the elbows, and black spots danced in front of his eyes as the pain flared. “You won't fool him,” he said, thinking of Haddock rather than of anything else at that moment; fierce blue eyes, strong hands pulling him to safety, the roar of rage he would make when he found out that Tintin was in this ridiculous mess. “You won't.”

*

Untold hours later and he found that he was dreaming while awake.

He hadn't dreamed about the orphanage in a long time; he would far rather forget about it, about all the endless squabbles and tedium and the kind but harried monks who had never quite had time to explain about anything of importance. But his mind would keep going back there, back to the time when the local boys had cornered him on his way home from the schoolhouse ( _”Who's your mother, Tintin? Did she have a son like you every time she spread her legs? Think she gave them all away, or was it just you?”_ ) and the frustration and the shame and the anger, and all this time he had had -

A pale-faced woman, her eyes sad. _My Augustin_ , she said, and reached out with unfeeling fingers to stroke down his fever-hot cheeks as he choked and retched from the flare of pain all down his arms, his shoulders, his aching back. _My Tintin_.

*

“All aboard, ladies and gentlemen,” cried the station attendant. The Bruxelles-Midi railway station was busy at this time of day, full of the hubbub of people rushing to catch the evening train to Bruges; the great train hissed steam as doors slammed shut all along the carriages. “This train is now departing for Bruges. Madam, please restrain your dog. All aboard, all aboard!”

“It is not my dog,” the lady said indignantly from beneath her extremely elaborate hat, twitching her voluminous skirts aside as the animal in question fled past. “I do not own a dog, and I strongly resent the implication that I would ever lay claim such an animal!”

“Well -” the harried station attendant glanced around, but the small white dog was already disappearing onto the train. “Here! Get that dog off that train!” A few people looked around, but without much interest or desire to help. “No dogs allowed without a collar and a leash!”

The small white dog in question trotted purposely forward through the carriages, dodging around the human legs that hurried to and fro, occasionally stopping to sniff at a particularly interesting smell. Eventually, it reached a carriage in which a single old man was already snoring, oblivious to the world; the small white dog slipped in around the door, hopped up onto the opposite seat to peer out of the window and then hastily ducked down again as the irate station attendant came into view.

Moments later, the train gave a great lurch forward. The dog whined softly as the engine picked up speed, and at last sat up, cautiously, to press a damp nose against the window as the outskirts of Brussels flew past.

Nobody noticed, but if they had, they might have observed that the small white dog appeared to be extremely pleased with himself.

 

***

 

_”I shall sing you a lullaby,” the pale woman whispered to Tintin. “If you are asleep.”_

_“No lullabies,” Tintin said. His lips didn't quite work._

_“Augustin,” she murmured then, and Tintin woke up with burning tears sliding out from under his eyelids._

*

Christof waited in the hallway.

Of course he was not Christof now; he was Augustin. Tintin. He would have to get used to the name. He was waiting in the hallway to see if anyone would notice that he was the new Tintin, not the old Tintin, but the postman had merely glanced at him and commented on the weather.

It was so pleasing, to fool people.

Half an hour ago, they had received word that the Captain had returned from his trip, and the old butler had gone down to meet the train with the car. He could see the gates opening now, and took a deep breath of the fresh golden air. Everything was _perfect_ , just the way he had planned it.

The Captain did not look quite as Christof – Augustin – remembered him from the pictures and from their one brief glimpse of one another over the falls. He was a good deal taller, and had his hair and beard cut shorter. “Captain,” Augustin said, moving forward, holding out his hand; a smile on his face, just as the imposter would have done. “So good to have you home.”

The Captain stared at him. “All is well, then, is it, lad?”

“Of course.” Augustin whistled, and Snowy trotted forward. The cur was always nervous of new people, and his ears stayed flat to his head. “Snowy's a little – skittish, this morning.”

“I see,” said Haddock flatly. 

“Do come through to have tea,” Augustin said brightly.

“One moment; I have – things in the car,” Haddock said slowly. 

So confusing, these people. The Russians had been far easier. 

Haddock, now; Haddock was not amusing, Augustin decided as they sat there opposite one another with the little table between them. Really, he couldn't see what his brother had seen in the man; all he would do was sit there, pale and frowning into his cup. Occasionally he would glance sideways at Snowy, who sat meek and quiet in his bed in the corner of the room.

“Was it an interesting trip?” Augustin asked at last.

“Very,” the Captain said shortly, looking away, and then, “I'll fetch the whiskey from the sideboard.”

“As you wish,” Augustin said pleasantly, and relaxed a little as the man got up and moved around to the sideboard behind him; there was the tell-tale clink of glass. At least it seemed as if he was believed; oh, but his acting was sublime, his planning sheer genius. There was nothing he could not do after this, nothing -

Cold steel pressed against his temple and he gasped. “Where is he?” Haddock growled, right next to his ear, and Augustin swallowed a whimper. “I know you're an imposter, you scabrous little toad. Where is Tintin?”

Augustin placed his teacup back on its saucer with a hand that barely shook. “C-captain, you've got it all wrong -”

“Have I, now?”

“Yes. There was an imposter!” Augustin twisted around anxiously in his seat; surely Haddock must believe him. “I did not want to tell you, but he was here, I – I have him in the cellar. The police will take him away in the morning.”

This close, Haddock's eyes were steely blue flints. “I'd like to see him.”

“The imposter?” Thinking fast, Augustin rose from the chair, noting with relief that the gun dropped away. “The most curious thing – he did look a little like me, I suppose. Maybe a long-lost relative. Are you sure you want to see -”

“I'm sure,” Haddock said, the inflection in his voice gentle but inexorable. “Nestor!”

The butler appeared as if by magic. “Sir?”

“Nestor, I think we'll all go down to the bottom cellars.”

“Sir, there's nothing down there but -”

“Rats and damp, I know. Come, lad, let's go and have a look at this imposter.”

It grew colder as they all filed across the hallway, into the kitchens and down the steps; Augustin was shivering by the time they reached the bottom, Haddock crowding him close, the gun still in his hand. “In here,” he said, avoiding Nestor's puzzled glance, and flung open the heavy door. This was not a disaster, of course it was not a disaster; he was in the right. There was no logic to his fear.

The imposter was slumped in his chains, either alseep or dead. There was dried blood at the side of his mouth, and around his wrists where he had struggled against the bonds. “I had to tie him up,” Augustin said to Haddock, who had frozen still as a statue. “He would have fought me, otherwise.”

“Tintin,” the Captain said, and his voice broke on the words; he strode forwards, and Augustin knew a rush of horror. “Tintin!”

*

Tintin awoke to find something heavy being dropped onto his lap, and then something else of a similar weight. There was an excruciating cramping pain in his arms, and he gave a strangled moan and buried his face in the soft wool that was now behind him – his arms, it was his arms, someone had released him. “Captain?”

“Here, lad. Blistering barnacles, Tintin, but you had me worried for a moment.”

Tintin forced his eyes open. Over Haddock's arm, he saw Nestor efficiently cuffing a figure who twisted and spat curses; Christof. “He caught me unawares,” Tintin said muzzily. 

“I daresay he did.” Haddock's voice sounded thick. 

“How, how'd you know it was me?”

“Didn't I tell you, boy?” A strong hand stroked through his matted hair. “I'd know you anywhere.”

“That's all right then.” Tintin could feel himself swimming in and out of consciousness, and fought against it. “Captain, where's Snowy?”

As if on cue, there was a further scuffle at the doorway, and then a warm weight clambered onto Tintin's lap and his vision was abruptly filled with dirty white fur as Snowy furiously washed his face. “G'boy, Snowy” Tintin slurred, wishing his tingling painful hands would move so that he could pet his wonderful, clever dog. “'s okay, I'm here, clever, clever boy. Cap'n, did you call the police and -”

“Yes, yes. And before you ask more muddle-headed questions, Snowy came all the way to Bruges and found me. Somehow. Can you stand? - fool, of all the questions – come on, lubber, up we go.” Tintin found himself being scooped up, the Captain grunting under his weight. 

“All right,” Tintin agreed, and subsided into oblivion with an overwhelming sense of relief.

 

***

 

A month later, and there was a chill in the breeze; autumn was coming.

Tintin sat outside, well bundled up, with Snowy curled in his lap and his back resting against one of the apple trees. There were still some problems with his hands, but he could move them well enough to pull the bright scarf tighter around his own neck. “Where do you think he's gone?” he asked, apropos of nothing. 

The Captain looked up. He was sprawled on the ground, gazing up at the formation of the clouds, high above them. “Christof?”

“Yes.”

“You think he's alive?”

“I know he's alive,” Tintin said. Christof had disappeared from custody a few days after his arrest; the Thompsons had been most apologetic, and Tintin too ill to know anything about it until two weeks later. “He won't stay away for long.”

“Now see here,” Haddock began, propping himself up on one elbow with a black scowl, “if that little parasitic pestilence shows his face here again -”

“He knew my mother,” Tintin continued. “And my father. I - wish I'd known them.” _Augustin_ , they had called him, and the name didn't feel like his own; it felt like it belonged more to Christof than to him.

“You have a family,” the Captain said. “Don't you?” and Snowy gave a wuff of agreement. 

Tintin rested his head back against the tree, thinking. “Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose I do.” He forced a smile, and found it easier than he had feared. “Maybe he - might be able to get better. Do you think?"

"Maybe." The Captain sounded dubious. "Sometimes all that's left is the bad."

"He was so like me." Tintin bit his lip, considering. "It's interesting to have a nemesis, don't you think, Captain?”

“Interesting? Tintin -”

“Exciting, too, and it adds an element of human interest; I'll have to write it up."

"You mean you really -"

"Now where's my typewriter?”

“Tintin!”


End file.
